


Get Out The Map

by genee



Category: Music RPF, Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-25
Updated: 2008-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:39:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genee/pseuds/genee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Steve fucking knew this would happen, knew it the first time he laid eyes on this kid, singing to himself in Chris's kitchen, half-naked and fully fucked, cracking eggs in a cereal bowl like he was cool with not knowing where to find shit, like he was used to it, like he knew how to make himself at home wherever he was.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Out The Map

Steve's got no damn idea why he's even here, why he didn't turn around as soon as he realized Chris wasn't around, as soon as Nick said, "He's out, dawg," bare feet propped up on the coffee table, crumpled pack of smokes by his ankle, empties scattered around like so much time. He should have left right then, should have flipped his keys in his palm and said something easy, something like, "Yeah, okay," and walked out of Chris's place like he has a million times before, Chris is out more than he's in these days, isn't real big on leaving notes, either.

He definitely shouldn't have wandered into the kitchen like he did, grabbed himself a beer and wandered back out, sunlight caught in Nick's hair like he should have been on a beach somewhere, all tan skin and blue eyes and _fuck_ , Steve fucking knew this would happen, knew it the first time he laid eyes on this kid, singing to himself in Chris's kitchen, half-naked and fully fucked, cracking eggs in a cereal bowl like he was cool with not knowing where to find shit, like he was used to it, like he knew how to make himself at home wherever he was.

Truth is, he looks pretty comfortable now, too, a lot more comfortable than Steve feels, which is wrong on so many different levels Steve's not even going to think about it. He lights himself a cigarette and Nick smiles, slides the Queen of Spades off the couch to join the Ace and the Jack on the floor, edges worn smooth, tattered. Steve sits, wonders briefly what happened to the King when Nick clears his throat, says, "He ain't comin' back for a while."

Steve nods and leans forward, elbows on his knees, thinks Nick must be bored off his ass by now, must be sick of the whole fucking world, hanging out in Chris's shitty apartment when Chris isn't even around. He looks out the window, looks around the room, paperback open on the coffee table, game controller tossed aside, notebook on the arm of the couch, smudge of blue ink on Nick's throat, his fingers. There's a chewed up pen in the ashtray, shadows under Nick's eyes. Nick says, "I'm just hiding out here for a couple days."

Before Nick, Steve hadn't even considered the possibility that Christian fuckin' Kane could be someone else's safe place, because Chris is a lot of things but he's never been _safe_ , Jesus. The whole idea of it still sort of blows Steve away. Nick's one of the few things in Chris's life he won't say much about. Mostly Chris'll talk about anything, everything, make shit up when he runs out of truth just to keep on talking, but the last time Steve asked all he got was Chris's mouth on his, warm smoke in his lungs and Chris grinning wide, "Whatever, man. He's more like me than you think," which told Steve exactly nothing.

Except.

Well.

Steve might not know much about Nick, but he sure as hell knows Chris. And if he'd walked in on Chris sitting here like this, bored, alone, maybe they'd play for a while, Chris's guitar hopelessly out of tune and Chris's voice mixed in with his, good weed, cold beer; they might fight, hurt each other, pass out later, wake up tasting like whiskey and blood; or he might just blow Chris instead, push him back against the couch and pop the button on his fly, tug his jeans down low on his thighs, fuck him better. Chris was always something special with his legs spread, couldn't think straight with his ass in the air and his dick hard, couldn't do anything but curse and moan and come all over himself, his hands twisted in the sheets.

Nick shifts beside him, like he knows what Steve's thinking. Steve stubs out his cigarette, takes a long pull from his beer. There's half a joint on the edge of the ashtray, weed in Chris's top drawer, guitar picks and bright paper money, an old Zippo, keys for the truck Chris sold six years ago. Steve licks his lips, and Nick's eyes drop to Steve's mouth for a second, one hand scrubbing through the soft spikes his hair. "Fuck," Steve breathes, wondering if Chris meant for this to happen, if he knew Steve would find Nick here, if he's been planning this all along.

"Fuck," Nick echoes, sucking on his bottom lip, dark and bitten, too lush for Steve not to lean in and press a kiss to his mouth, just soft, just there, just warm and wet until Nick makes this little sound, almost surprised, so sexy, all broad shoulders and bright eyes, already pressing close.

Steve thinks about spreading him out right here, thinks about fucking him on Chris's bed, on Chris's sheets, thinks about how he'll look with Steve's dick deep inside him, his hole red and swollen sweet, long legs everywhere, skin all flushed and heated. He's sort of flushed already, his fingers twisted in open edge Steve's shirt, his mouth made for this, made for so much more. Nick moans softly when Steve pulls away, and Steve thumbs the smudge of ink at the base of his throat. "C'mon," he says, smiling, Nick's pulse beating wild beneath his fingers. "Let's get you cleaned up."

 

 

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